Serial Killer

Oh dear, it looks like 
Your next poem’s well 
On its way to turning in
To your latest nightmare— 
What to do? For crying 
Out loud, choke it— 
You wouldn’t want it 
To end up stalking 
You too, would you? 

Skeleton Keys

Hard by 

There’s a door behind 
Which everything hides 

And where 

Everyone’s trying hard 
To get out 

Of going in. 

Lazarus Redux

April’s no fool— 
To come up smelling 
Like a rose 

In this waste land, 
You’ll have to dig deeper 
To revive 

Whatever remains 
Alive in you. 

Facing the Prompter

Friend, awake you pretend 
You’re sharp, alive and kicking, acting 
Up, one step ahead of the world again— 
Asleep, five will get you ten you see 
Someone tripping over his lines, 
A ham actor falling perfectly on end, 
Flat on his face again and again. 

After Attending the Funeral of a Centenarian, Phaedra (Approaching Four) Muses on the Subject of Mortality

Papa, 

I know Granny Sophy died 
Yesterday because I saw her dead, 

But I’m going to read as much poetry 
As I can and then try 

To write it so I don’t. 

Empathy of a Third Kind

Each village with a madman—might it be 
The work of the wind blowing in 

One ear and out 
The other 

Inconsolable as can be? 

Greek Occupation

Before the war, my father worked 
His small, patchy wheat fields
Wearing rough sandals 
Made of used tire treads, 
But he still put bread on our table. 

When the German boot came, 
He walked barefoot with no
Bread to be found anywhere— 
Another story altogether, 
But the kernel remains the same.